


through playful lips made of yarn

by peachydz



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Character Death, F/M, M/M, Unrequited Love, dave is hard to write, i guess i was just sad when i wrote this, tbh none of them are even in character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-04-20 15:07:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14263707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachydz/pseuds/peachydz
Summary: “Dave, you seem particularly desolate recently. Would you like to talk?”





	through playful lips made of yarn

**Author's Note:**

> title is from “northern downpour” by panic! at the disco
> 
> a recurring theme in these shorts ive been posting is that someone dies.. ok.. also sorry for posting so much i just had these written before i got the invitation to make an account

Summer was the peak of your friendship. You would roll around out back with him while frogs croaked at dusk. The days at a time you would spend at his house were occasionally jam-packed with fun (going to amusement parks, getting food downtown, building a fire in the backyard) but were typically relaxing bonding times (watching movies, going for long drives, gaming all day) with your best bro. You also talked. A lot. 

In the deep of night, John would always ask you some ridiculous question that led to topics far more intimate than either of you intended to speak of. Topics like your brother, his dad, both of your feelings about the world. Summer was a time of growing closer. 

Sometimes he would hold your hand. It never lasted longer than a minute, and neither of you ever said anything. It was just one of those things where saying something would either make it awkward or it would completely change the dynamic of your friendship (breaking or making). You never said anything when he held your hand, and he never said anything when you didn’t drop it.

Unfortunately, the end of summer brings the start of fall. With it brought separation from John. He had schoolwork and you had.. your home life to deal with. You don’t ever talk about it. You also don’t talk about how not seeing John was pushing your friendship down (into the ground). It makes your mind drift constantly, wondering what happened. You are incredibly sad. No word more complex describes how you feel as well as ‘sad’ does. But nobody knows anything about all this.

Except Rose Lalonde.

Rose had a way of sizing you up. It never made you feel uncomfortable or judged. She just takes you in and reads you like she reads her books. Rose likes to jump to conclusions. She makes assumptions. She never knows the whole story.

“Dave, you seem particularly desolate recently. Would you like to talk?”

“No, Lalonde. I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. I’ve never been better, I just bought a house for the wife and kids. My dog taught itself how to speak. Everything in my life is perfect if y—“

“Ah, of course. Send my regards to your wife,” Rose says, rolling her eyes as she goes along with the nonsense you spat out. “I was simply inquiring if you wanted to discuss your issues with me. My doors are always open.” Rose walks away, not even saying bye to you. Broads, right fellas? Despite your usual avoidance of this sort of thing, you have a good track record of Rose actually helping you out with your problems. That doesn’t stop you from hesitating to message her at 10 that night.

You tell her about the summertime, how wonderful it was and how wonderful John was and how not wonderful your current situation is. You tell her with long, rambly messages because that is how you cope with your nerves. You talk. Rose is accustomed to this and it poses no problem as she speaks with you. She comforts you in her own special, “I’m very wordy and act like I know psychology in depth” way. Rose is probably the only person who comes close to helping you, which is why you don’t say shit about your problems to anyone else. Not even John. 

Rose tells you that she could talk to John, ask him about his work. Bring you up. She says that will help. It sounds good in your head, so you agree and ask her to do that for you. Rose is a good friend.

The next days pass. No word from John. You ask Rose, did you do it yet, always receiving vague answers about how it just hasn’t come up, she will be sure to do it next time. The time never comes. Weeks pass. You wonder why you have seemingly lost two of your closest friends. You never see John anymore, and he never messages you so you never message him. Rose acts normally at school, but her messages are distant and sparce nowadays. You seem fine but you are breaking down inside. It feels like you are full of something heavy and not willing to budge. You sometimes cry seemingly out of nowhere (but only in your room, never outside). Your life keeps going downhill.

Then you see it. A picture on social media of John... and Rose. Holding hands. More pictures, not only holding hands but hugging and out on dates with each other.

Your life crashes into a fucking rock and explodes. 

Suddenly everything you have ever cared about is pointless. You spend the first few hours with your newfound insight kicking various things in your room. You also hit, break, and throw objects. One of these is your phone. You throw it so hard that it breaks your wall, falling to the floor with chunks of debris. You do not yell or scream or sob. What you feel is too powerful, simply leaving you shaking with tears spilling from your eyes. Your hands turn white with how hard you clench them. The headboard of your bed looks awful inviting to smash your head against so maybe this misery would end. Giving yourself a concussion is not ideal, however, and you choose to kneel on the floor instead, quietly dry heaving.

John was never yours. It was over with the end of summer. Rose never wanted to help you. She purposely dodged your questions. You never had real friends, because real friends would not hurt you like this. Holding his hand meant nothing, her words were biting lies. You, Dave Strider, could not handle it.

 

Your brother finds you three days later. You were stinkin’ up the house, Davey, what the fuck are ya doin’, open the door. The funeral is small and cheap. Only three people show up. Your brother, who sits in the very back by himself, and John with Rose. You would have laughed. Rose was not invited. Anger would have swelled up in your chest had you been there. You would have knocked him out cold right then right there.

John Egbert was woefully unaware.


End file.
